


Birthdays Are Tricky (Or Greg Spends a Lot of Time in Mycroft's Car)

by peg22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Birthday, Birthday Sex, Car Sex, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV Greg, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Pre-Series, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peg22/pseuds/peg22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade hated birthdays - cakes and balloons and Anderson pointing out just how old he was getting. But then he started accidentally spending his birthdays with Mycroft Holmes and he thought he probably should reconsider his position. </p><p>Story goes from pre-series to somewhere in that magical place where Sherlock is back and there is no Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthdays Are Tricky (Or Greg Spends a Lot of Time in Mycroft's Car)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyricalsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for my dear Lyrical Soul - who led me to these boys. And whose Mystrade stories are my faves. I asked her what she wanted and she said, "Mystrade, of course!" 
> 
> This is my first real story with these two - so any crit or comment is very welcome.  
> And big squishy cuddles to Susan for the once over. And over.

**42**

The first birthday Greg spent with Mycroft, he barely noticed. Someone said drink this and someone else wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and someone else stitched his hand and someone else stuck a needle in his arm. The next thing he knew he was in the back of a car, bandaged from finger to shoulder, still wrapped in a blanket and feeling no pain.

He knew he should know things. Things like why was he in a car, why was his arm not working properly, why was Mycroft Holmes patting his leg. Mycroft? He struggled up a few levels and turned his head. Yes. Mycroft Holmes sat next to him, looking straight ahead, humming under his breath. Patting his leg.

“What are you . . . what is going . . . what . . .?” Greg blinked a few times. It only made him dizzy.

“Try not to talk, Detective Inspector. You’ve had a blow to the head and a deep laceration to your wrist and forearm. You’ve been given a dose of pain reliever and after we stop by the residence of a physician friend of mine, I will take you home.”

Greg closed his eyes. Images came in and out of focus. He was running. He threw himself down a set of stairs – no that couldn’t be right. Someone threw him down a set of stairs. No. He looked at his arm and a crystal clear picture of Sherlock swam into view. Sherlock holding a jagged beer bottle, swinging it. He moved a bit and winced. His head hurt.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that any reference to this evening will be absent from the daily log at the Met.” Mycroft said. “And I don’t need to remind you that Sherlock’s name-“

“Sherlock did this,” Greg muttered and it all came crashing back into his brain. He’d been sent to find Sherlock, who had flung himself off the wagon in spectacular fashion, careening from drug den to crack house for the better part of a month. Mycroft had tapped Greg to find him and fix him. Again.

But Sherlock didn’t want to be found, and when Greg stumbled upon him on a roof in Hackney, he fought back. This surprised Greg, which was why he tumbled down the stairs, Sherlock tumbling after him. The kid was out of his mind, and Greg had tried to talk him down, which only made Sherlock more agitated.

Greg stepped forward, Sherlock swung and suddenly Greg was staring at the bottle sticking out of his arm. Sherlock shoved him, but he managed to kick his leg out as he fell and Sherlock fell on top of him, whispering _sorry, sorry, sorry_ , into his ear. He had no chance to answer or to even think, because the place was suddenly crowded with men dressed in black, who dragged Sherlock off him, still shouting, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Those were your men?” Greg laid his head back on the seat. “You followed me?”

“I keep a weather eye. I knew my brother had gone fairly deep this time.”

“I’d say – he tried to kill me.”

“That’s a bit hyperbolic . . .”

Greg shook his head. “You’ve got to get him into treatment.”

“I know.” Mycroft pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s in good hands.”

“Do you always talk in riddles? Is that some kind of job requirement?” Greg shifted in the seat. Pulled his arm against his chest. “You know he needs help, Mycroft. We can’t keep doing this.”

Mycroft sighed. “No, we can’t. You can’t. I didn’t mean for you to become . . . so involved.”

“Well I am involved. I care about what happens to him. And it does him no good for you to swoop in every time and clean it all up.” Greg felt the pain reliever ebbing out of his body. His arm was aching and his head was pounding. “Maybe he can come and work with me.”

“Oh yes, from junkie to police officer – that’s quite the career trajectory.”

Greg squinted against the sharp edges in Mycroft’s words – the man’s t’s and p’s were like blades. “He knows what he’s doing around a crime scene. He solved that double homicide in Essex in three minutes.”

“I saw the report. It was mind-numbingly simple.”

Greg sighed and closed his eyes again. He wished he had a pillow. He just needed a little nap. He leaned over and rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“You need to stay awake, Detective Inspector.”

“Lestrade.”

“What?”

“Call me Lestrade. Or Greg.” Greg let the rest of his body relax against Mycroft. He felt Mycroft’s muscles tense and chuckled. “Don’t worry – I’m too concussed to make a move on you.”

Mycroft sputtered and squirmed, but finally lifted his arm and Greg moved closer, his head resting against Mycroft’s chest. He laid his injured arm across Mycroft’s knee. “He’s brilliant you know. Don’t know why he’d want to blow it all up the way he does . . . we could use him.”

“We’ll see.” Mycroft looked out the window. “Thank you . . . Lestrade.”

Greg murmured into Mycroft’s chest. “You’re welcome, Mycroft Holmes. And you smell good.”

“I’ll remind you of that tomorrow.”

“You won’t smell good tomorrow?”

“You will not think so kindly of me, I’m afraid. When it all sinks in.”

Greg nodded. “It’s my birthday.”

“I’m aware of that. Happy Birthday, Lestrade.”

“Thank you.” Greg listened to Mycroft’s heartbeat through his chest. He did smell good. Woodsy, vanilla, a little smoky. He wondered if Mycroft had any cake. He’d like a cake. For his birthday. He drifted off.

 

The doctor had no bedside manner and wore too much cologne. Greg threw up on the way back to the car, and he spent the next few minutes convincing Mycroft that he didn’t need hospital – he was just sensitive to bad smells. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, leaned forward and said something to the driver that Greg couldn’t hear, and they were back on their way.

After about ten minutes, Greg realized they were not headed to his home.

“Hey, are you kidnapping me now?” The morphine had made him fuzzy but not that fuzzy.

“The doctor believes you have a slight concussion. You need to be monitored.”

“No hospital.”

“I agree. But you live alone, from the state of your wardrobe, and so the only sensible course is to take you to my house.”

Greg looked down at his chest. Shirt, coat, trousers. “What’s wrong with my wardrobe?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “It would take hours to explain.”

“I’ve got all night.” Greg smiled and then yawned. Looked at Mycroft’s shoulder longingly.

“Oh for heaven’s sake. Come.” Mycroft lifted his arm and Greg scooted over, resuming his position against Mycroft’s chest.

Greg sighed and closed his eyes. “You do smell good you know.”

“So you say.” Mycroft patted his shoulder. “If you doze off, I will wake you every fifteen minutes.”

“You say the nicest things.” Greg rubbed his cheek against Mycroft’s chest. Felt Mycroft’s heart speed up, his chest rise and fall. Matched his breaths until he fell asleep.

  

**45**

The second time he spent his birthday with Mycroft was sort of accidental. They had been working together on an internet hacking case, and Mycroft had invited him to dinner after. Which was unusual. Since most of the time their interactions were either during a state of emergency (where’s Sherlock?) or in a professional capacity (where’s Sherlock?), the idea of sitting down and sharing a meal seemed much more intimate than it should. Plus it was his birthday, a fact he was not fond of sharing with anyone. There was always too much fuss at work. Cake and balloons and Anderson talking about how old he was getting. He didn’t need to be reminded of that.

Surprisingly, Mycroft remembered. There was champagne and crème brulée. During dessert Mycroft slid a thin silver package across the table. A pair of leather gloves. Probably cost more than Greg made in a week, but they fit perfectly and he suddenly got lost in the satisfied smile on Mycroft’s face.

“Thank you . . . you didn’t have to.”

“It was my pleasure. Happy birthday.”

Greg drank too much and Mycroft drank just enough and when Mycroft’s hand brushed Greg’s on the way to the car, the reasons this could be the worst idea ever fell away and Mycroft turned and Greg grabbed his hand and pulled him close and Mycroft started to speak and Greg silenced him with a kiss. They both pulled back quickly. Greg was confused at the look on Mycroft’s face. Surprise, yes, but also something . . . the thought was erased as Mycroft wrapped his hand around the back of Greg’s neck and kissed him hard. Forced his mouth open, his tongue invading, hot and sweet. Greg grabbed Mycroft’s shoulders and hung on. Mycroft finally pulled away, panting. Greg ran a hand through his hair and hoped his growing erection wasn’t obvious. They were standing on the pavement for fuck’s sake. And he was a cop and Mycroft was . . . whatever he was, and all Greg wanted was to push Mycroft against the car and make him beg for it.

“I won’t beg for it.” Mycroft’s voice was soft, his eyes dark.

“What?” _Oh hell. Did he say that out loud?_ Greg blew out a breath and tried to look nonchalant.

Mycroft smiled and pulled at Greg’s sleeve. “Shall we retire to the car?”

A sleek black sedan pulled up beside them. _Of course it did._ Greg nodded.

The car rolled away from the kerb, and Mycroft turned to Greg.

“I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous. I assumed you needed a ride.”

“No it’s fine. I can pick up my car later.”

“Yes, well, you did drink quite a bit.”

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“Really, I don’t think . . .”

“Do you ever? Shut up?”

“Detective . . . Lestrade . . .”

Greg leaned over to Mycroft’s side of the car. “In one minute I’m going to make you forget your own name, much less mine.”

Mycroft stopped talking.

“Unless of course you want to have a nice chat.”

Mycroft turned to Greg and pulled him closer and their lips met, hesitant. Greg pressed hard against Mycroft and the kiss deepened. Mycroft slid his hand between Greg’s legs and Greg moaned against Mycroft’s mouth. He was lost in the smell and the taste and a very tiny part of him wondered why he found this man so fucking attractive. And Mycroft moved from his mouth to his neck and Greg’s head fell back against the seat. He was going to come in his pants right here in the back seat and he didn’t care. He reached down and massaged Mycroft through his trousers and Mycroft’s head came up and he looked at Greg and Greg managed what he hoped was a lecherous smile and Mycroft raised an eyebrow and kissed him hard, swirling his tongue in his mouth and then he was gone. Greg opened his eyes and Mycroft was sitting on his side of the car, straightening his waistcoat. Smiling.

The car had stopped and when Greg looked out the window he saw they were in front of his flat. Apparently the ride was over. In all ways.

“Happy birthday – and thank you for a lovely evening . . . Lestrade.” Mycroft lifted his hand and Greg’s door opened.

It all happened so fast all Greg could do was mumble a “yeah, thanks, okay,” and climb out. The driver closed the door and Greg stood on the pavement, watching the car drive away.

 

**47**

The third time was really the first time. As in capital T the first time. The beginning. The problem was it came at the end. After the fall. After the funeral. After the sorrow, although not completely drowned, was a forgotten gasp in the bottom of his glass.

He stood at the back of the hall, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Those who loved Sherlock blamed him. Those who despised Sherlock wanted to buy him drinks. Mrs. Hudson hung onto his arm and sobbed. John just gave him a nod and walked out the door.

Mycroft Holmes appeared before him and smiled. “Detective Inspector.”

“For chrissake’s Mycroft – Greg, just bloody call me Greg will ya?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “You’re drunk.”

“Well that’s what you do at funerals.”

Mycroft smiled again. Greg wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. How does this man always . . . grief, that’s what it was. He moved off the wall and walked back to the bar. He didn’t need to complicate things by starting up again with Mycroft Holmes. Though there had not been much starting up. Well, there was plenty of starting, just not much follow-through. And for fuck’s sake, the man just lost his brother – what was he going to do – _so sorry, mate, fancy a shag_? He heard Mycroft clear his throat directly behind him. He shut his eyes for a moment, grabbed his glass and turned around.

“How are you doing?” Greg meant it. Knew this couldn’t be easy.

Mycroft avoided his eyes. Straightened his cuff. “Fine.”

“Fine? Well, yes, I can see – your brother offs himself – I can clearly see why you wouldn’t have a problem with that.” Greg held up his glass in a toast and took a drink.

Mycroft leaned in. “Would you rather me sobbing in a heap on some ghastly brocade settee?”

Greg felt Mycroft’s breath on his cheek. If he turned his head . . .

Mycroft stepped back, startled. “You . . .”

Greg stared at him. Had Mycroft read his mind? “I what?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Gregory-“

“That’s better then.”

“What?”

“Gregory – sounds nice.”

Mycroft frowned. Greg leaned in closer. Their chests were almost touching. Greg was surprised Mycroft didn’t move back. They stared at each other for a moment.

“Who knows what would happen if you called me Greg.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow raised and he leaned down and whispered into Greg’s ear. “I will call you Greg when you do something to deserve it.”

Greg stumbled back a step. Fucking hell . . . when he looked up at Mycroft, the smile was back, the collar seemed stiffer. How does he do that?

“Are you . . .”

“Offering you a ride home? Yes. I don’t want your reputation to suffer any more blows.”

Greg was instantly reminded where and why they were standing there. His knees felt weak and he sucked in a breath. He lowered his head and tried not to allow all the grief he had just managed to drink away come bubbling to the surface, splashing all over Mycroft’s ridiculously expensive suit.

“Jesus, I’m so bloody sorry. If I’d only known, I should have known, why didn’t we know . . .” He trailed off, knowing none of it mattered, yet it all mattered. They had spent so much time together in the last few years trying to save Sherlock, and now they stood together at his funeral. His bloody fucking funeral.

Mycroft took his arm. “What say we take our leave?”

Greg snorted. “Take our leave? Okay, whatever you say.”

Mycroft didn’t let go of his arm until they reached the car. Greg leaned against him. Wished he could just pass out and forget all of it. Today, the past week, the past month.

Mycroft stopped and turned him around, held onto both his arms, looked hard into his eyes.

“None of this is your fault. There is nothing you could have done that would change the outcome.”

“The outcome? He died, Mycroft. What’s wrong with you?” Greg twisted out of Mycroft’s hold. “Your brother is dead. I know how you feel about him. Felt about him. You can fool everybody else, but I know.”

Mycroft opened the car door. “Then you should also know that I will not make a scene. Wear sackcloth, rent my garments. I cannot.” He got into the car.

Greg followed. “I know.” He nodded, which made him dizzy. He laid his head on the back of the seat. He felt the car move and closed his eyes.

“You will let me know if you become nauseated.” Mycroft opened a laptop. “I can stop the car immediately.”

Greg nodded. He heard the tap of Mycroft’s fingers on the keys. Opened an eye to watch him type. His fingers were so long, so manicured. Without realizing it, Greg reached over and touched the top of Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft stopped typing, lifted his hands off the keyboard. Greg ran his fingers lightly over Mycroft’s wrist. Mycroft closed the laptop with his other hand and turned to Greg.

“Your hands are soft.” Greg murmured.

“You should sleep.” Mycroft took Greg’s hand and placed it back in his lap. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Greg looked at his own hand and smiled. Oh, he knew what he was doing. He just didn’t know why he was doing it. He turned to Mycroft. “It’s my birthday, you know. And you still smell good.”

Mycroft frowned. “Right. And right. Happy birthday.”

Greg moved closer and buried his nose in Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft stayed still for a moment, as if he were making a decision, and turned and pushed Greg against the door, his mouth crashing into Greg’s, his body sliding off the seat and between Greg’s legs.

“Damn . . .” Greg managed between kisses. “Hang on . . .” He tried to push Mycroft away, but he was too drunk, or too weak, or really didn’t want to. All he knew is that Mycroft was fumbling with his zipper and biting his tongue at the same time and the car turned a corner and he fell sideways and Mycroft was suddenly on top of him and he felt the buttons on his shirt go and Mycroft’s tongue was trailing down his chest and he couldn’t breathe and he knew neither one of them should be doing this and he felt his trousers slip below his hips and Mycroft dipped and Greg hissed as Mycroft’s tongue moved up and down his cock and he was floating somewhere above the car and he knew it was going to end fast and he didn’t care. He came in a long moan, his hips off the seat, his hands thrown over his head, knuckles banging against the window. He felt Mycroft move off him and for a while there was no sound in the car except his ragged breathing. Guess he wasn’t all that drunk.

He reached down and pulled his trousers back over his hips. He looked at Mycroft, who was watching him.

“Jesus . . .”

Mycroft smiled. “You flatter me.”

“What the hell was that?” Greg pulled himself up to a sitting position. He tried to pull his shirt together, but the buttons were gone.

“I hope I don’t have to explain the very basic concept of-“

“Never mind.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. He saw that Mycroft’s erection was still straining against his trousers and he smiled.

“Need any help with that?” Greg reached over but Mycroft grabbed his wrist.

“Not here.” Mycroft brought Greg’s hand to his lips and he kissed the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist. “I want you naked on my bed, not a quick tug in the backseat of a car. Our first night together deserves something more dignified, don’t you think?”

Greg tried to listen but Mycroft lips were moving down his hand to his fingers. “Our first night . . . together?”

Mycroft sucked a finger into his mouth and Greg watched him, his cock twitching already.

Mycroft pulled Greg’s hand away, intertwined their fingers. “You must know I want you.”

“Well, sure, I . . . I mean that was . . .”

Mycroft pulled Greg toward him. “Oh, you’ll catch up.” He kissed Greg lightly on the lips. “I’m asking you to come home with me.”

Greg nodded and Mycroft smiled and kissed him again. Kissed him most of the way to his home. Greg hadn’t snogged so much since university. At least it kept him from thinking too much.

And when they tumbled together into Mycroft’s bed – all dark wood and fancy sheets – he felt like they had always been heading here. And when Mycroft handed him another long thin box, and he opened the gorgeous silk tie (again, a week’s salary, he’d bet), he let it all go, the indecision, the grief, the feeling that whatever this was he probably didn’t deserve it, and he thanked Mycroft quite thoroughly for the thoughtful gift. Twice.

 

**50**

On a rainy Tuesday at four o’clock in the afternoon, Greg sat on a stool at the end of the bar in the worst pub in Brixton. Each of these facts by themselves didn’t mean much, but strung altogether they pointed to alcoholism, unemployment, or a broken heart. The middle one he was working on, the first he’d almost got in the bag, and the third?

“Another one, mate.” He shook his empty glass at the bartender, who brought over the bottle of Jameson.

Was he sitting here nursing a broken heart? Well, let’s look at the facts, Detective Inspector Wanker. It was his damn birthday and he was in the worst pub in Brixton while his rubbish whatever you’d call him had “important meetings with heads of states.” On his bloody birthday.

He took a long drink and stared into the mirror in front of him. Fifty years old. He thought it would mean more. Half a century. The big five-oh. At least he had his hair. He took another drink and felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked in the mirror and saw him. The other one. Not Mycroft. He snorted at his own cleverness. Maybe he’d discovered a new nickname.

“Enjoying yourself?” Sherlock unwound his scarf, slipped out of his coat and slid onto the stool beside him.

“I _was_.”

Sherlock raised a hand and the bartender hustled over. Probably hoping for a big tip, what with fancy pants and his fancy coat draped all over the bar.

“Redbreast. Neat.” Sherlock glanced over to the bottle next to Lestrade. “And one for him.”

“I’m just fine.”

“Your choice of whiskey is pedestrian at best. And if you’re going to drink Jameson, I suggest the eighteen year old bottle.”

Greg thought about leaving. He wasn’t in the mood for this particular Holmes. But curiosity got the best of him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Sherlock in a pub. On purpose.

“Since when do you drink in public?”

Sherlock lifted the glass in front of him and sniffed. Took a sip, nodded to the bartender and lifted his glass to Greg. Greg picked up the new glass and sniffed. Smelled just the same as the other one. Lifted it to Sherlock, who clinked the glass and said, “To a prosperous and happy year.”

Greg took a sip. It was good. Smooth. Damn Sherlock. Ruining him forever for cheap whiskey. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I thought it was self-explanatory.” Sherlock swirled the whiskey around his glass.

“Right. Like you’d miss out on an opportunity to explain something to us peasants? It _is_ my birthday.”

Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a package. A long thin package wrapped in silver and tied with a teal ribbon. Greg knew it was teal because Mycroft had told him it was teal. Not green, not blue. Teal.

“So now you’re Mycroft’s errand boy?”

Sherlock slid the package in front of Greg. “Hardly. I am supposed to deliver this to you before five p.m. I’m early, so I thought I’d share a birthday drink. It is the beginning of a new decade is it not? Bon anniversaire.”

“Cheers.” Greg drained his glass and moved the package away from him. “You can tell your brother thanks but no thanks.”

Sherlock sighed. “This is why I hate these things. Why am I here? I told Mycroft it would never work. John said, ‘Oh Sherlock, do it for your brother, do it for Greg . . .’”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock held up the package and shook it. “This. This. Inane, idiotic. Not to mention I have yet to meet anyone who thinks it’s a good idea.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” Greg said sharply but tried not to smile. He hadn’t seen a Sherlock hissy fit in a while. He blamed John’s calming presence. But maybe this was his real birthday present – Sherlock tying himself into a knot. He held up his glass for another drink. Apparently the good whiskey bottle stays behind the bar.

“And of course Molly called with a fascinating bit of bacteria. But Mrs. Hudson threatened me with tepid tea for a month, John told me I was being unreasonable. Me. Unreasonable.”

“I can hardly believe that.”

Sherlock stopped for a minute and stared at Greg. “I know.”

“So come on – what could possibly have wound you up like this?”

Sherlock looked shocked. “I am not wound up. I am trying to explain to you why a surprise party is such a ridiculous idea.” He closed his mouth quickly. Grimaced. Grabbed the package and shoved it towards Greg’s chest. “Just open this.”

“Surprise party? For me? Bloody fucking hell . . .”

“Precisely. Bad idea all round.” Sherlock held the package to Greg’s chest. “But, I agreed to deliver and I have delivered. What happens next is up to you.”

Greg put his hand on the package, mostly to keep Sherlock from shoving it through his heart. He reached for his glass and drank it in one swallow. If there was a surprise party, he needed to be drunk.

He sat the package on the bar. “What’s in it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t listen to that part of the plan. Something about tickets and a car or maybe that’s for later.”

Greg chuckled. “You are really shite at this, you know.”

“Makes me wonder about my brother, though. A surprise party? At your age?”

“Oi! What about my age?”

“Dinner and a fine snifter of brandy seem more appropriate. I saw Mrs. Hudson blowing up a balloon before I left.” Sherlock shuddered. “Ghastly.”

Greg was starting to get very worried. The details Sherlock kept spilling _were_ ghastly. “And just who is coming to this . . . party?”

“Well, Anderson was already there. Dimmock and Donovan too. A few others, I think they’re your lot – other various people, I have no idea.”

“And this is all happening at Baker Street?”

“Just open the package.” Sherlock reached for his coat. “My duties have been fulfilled.” He took out a wallet and pulled out a hundred pound note, tucked it under his glass. “Happy birthday.”

“Wait, Sherlock, you can’t leave me. I can’t . . .” Greg grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “I don’t want a surprise party.”

“Few people do.” Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck. “That’s why it’s a surprise.” He slid off the stool and put his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “No one would show up otherwise.” He turned and walked to the door. Held up his arm as he disappeared into the night.

Greg stared at the door for a minute and then turned back to the package. Bloody fucking hell. Now what? All was to be forgiven because Mycroft Holmes throws him a birthday party? The same Mycroft Holmes who had just recently told him he wasn’t sure if he were the kind of man to continue with. Whatever the hell that meant. Maybe he should have gotten Sherlock to translate.

He poked at the package with his finger. He was usually happy when he got one of these. He usually had great sex when he got one of these. For some reason, Mycroft got really turned on by giving him gifts. Really turned on. Like _drop to his knees in Tesco at three in the morning behind the Quavers display_ turned on.

But now? Mycroft had made it very clear that although the sex was “remarkable”, it was the between part he was uncomfortable with.

“The between part? You mean like living? Eating? Sleeping? You know I’ve never pressured you . . .”

“And yet I feel pressure. I fear I cannot continue.”

That had been last week and he hadn’t heard a word since. He spent much of the time wondering if he wanted it to continue. And what were they continuing? For the past couple of years, they’d gone out for long dinners in dark restaurants, stayed in for quick takeaway and rubbish telly. They had a standing Thursday night shag date. Mycroft had started calling him at 3:11 every Monday and Wednesday afternoon, usually with some very vulgar suggestion about his anatomy, to which Greg would answer with an equally disgusting idea about where he could put it.

It was easy. It was hot. But sometimes he’d see Mycroft just watching him. Sometimes he’d get embarrassed when he found himself imagining his car parked beside the sedan in Mycroft’s garage. Got a bit worried when his fantasies turned from tying Mycroft to a chair and having his way with him, to waking up in the morning and having tea, fighting over the first shower . . .

He ripped open the package. Mainly to stop himself from turning into a lovesick loon. He didn’t need Mycroft Holmes to get on one knee – well, maybe both knees . . . He shook his head to dispel that particular vision.

He turned back the tissue paper and stared at a silver keychain. With three keys. And an alarm card. Maybe Mycroft bought him a house. A car. Two cars. He looked up and caught a glimpse of Anthea standing by the front door. Great. First Sherlock and now the missus. Sometimes it seemed the biggest problem was that Mycroft put too many people between them.

He put the lid back on the box, stuffed the ribbon in his pocket. He hoped Sherlock’s money was enough for their tab ( _how much was that bloody whiskey anyway?)_ and stood and walked over to Anthea.

“I take it you’re not here for a hen night?”

Anthea dragged her eyes away from her BlackBerry. “This way, please, Detective Inspector.”

“Oh, a please? Well, then, sure. Lead the way.” Greg was glad he wasn’t exactly sober. He should have slipped the bottle under his coat.

He stood on the street and, as always happens, a dark sedan pulled to the kerb. Anthea opened the door.

“After you.” Greg held out his hand.

“Oh, no, sir, this one’s for you.” Anthea smiled and held onto the door.

Greg ducked his head in and saw long legs in perfectly pressed trousers, shoes shined within an inch of their bloody life, and teal socks. Teal?

He slid into the seat without looking at Mycroft. “Nice socks.”

“Gregory.”

Mycroft’s voice sent vibrations right to Greg’s cock. Fucking bastard. “Mycroft.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Yeah, thanks. Love the keys.” Greg took out the keychain and dangled it in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and pulled at his cuff. “I guess I was trying to be . . . well I just . . .”

Greg stared at Mycroft. Not often could he remember when Mycroft had been so . . . rattled. Maybe he was going to enjoy this.

“You know something about the price of silver? Wanted to give me a leg up?” Greg bounced the keychain in his palm. “Because I can tell you – silver prices go through the roof and I’m a rich man.”

“It’s platinum.”

Greg closed his fingers around the keychain. “La dee dah.” Fuck, this was serious.

Mycroft put his hand over Greg’s. “Please.”

“Please? Wow. That’s two in only two minutes.”

“Are you drunk? Did my brother . . .”

Greg pulled his hand away. “Because I’m not already sucking you off you think I’m drunk? And your brother has nothing to do with it. Well, except some bloody expensive whiskey and an inability to keep his mouth shut.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me all about the party and I’m not going.”

Mycroft sighed. “I told John it was a bad idea.”

“The party?”

“No, sending my brother.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah he’s shite. And I’m still not going.”

Mycroft looked out the window. Turned back to Greg. “I don’t care if we go or not. I just think we should have a conversation.”

Greg folded his arms and sat back in the seat. “Converse then.”

“You insist on making this difficult, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah, it’s my fault. You drag me out here when I was having perfectly lovely time-“

“Alone in a pub on your birthday?”

“Sod off. “ Greg felt in the side pocket of the door. “Isn’t there usually booze in here?”

“Well, fifty certainly agrees with you.” Mycroft reached beside him and pulled out a bottle. “Here.”

Greg took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, shook his head at the glass Mycroft was holding out, and took a big swig. He almost choked at the look on Mycroft’s face. Disapproval times twelve. He screwed the lid back on and stuffed the bottle between his legs. The keychain and box tumbled to the floor and both he and Mycroft reached for it at the same time and their hands got tangled. Greg swatted Mycroft’s hand away and scooped up the keys.

Mycroft sat back and looked at his knees for a moment. Sighed. Looked up at Greg.

“Those are keys to my flat in London, as well as the cottage in Devon. The alarm card is for the private car park at the Diogenes. And the key chain is also equipped with a silent alarm that goes directly to my office. A sensible precaution, knowing the danger you like to get up to with my brother . . .”

Greg looked down at the keys, stunned. Did Mycroft just give him the keys to the kingdom? His kingdom? Fuck. He felt like an arsehole. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Say thank you. Say, no thank you. It’s up to you.”

“But last week you said-“

“Last week I hadn’t spent this week without you. It was irritating and unnecessary.”

“Wait, are you saying you missed me?” Greg asked.

“If you want to use those terms.”

“Most people want to use those terms.”

“Yes, Gregory, your absence in my routine this week was . . . I missed you.”

Greg smiled. “So does this mean you want to continue?”

Mycroft let out a breath. “Are you interrogating me? I just gave you the keys to my flat. A traditional gesture of a wish for a commencement or continuation of an intimate relationship.”

Greg wished he hadn’t taken that last drink. Mycroft’s words were so big. “Wait, you want me to move in with you?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows flew up. “Absolutely not.” He settled his face and spoke again. “What I meant was, I want you. In my car. In my bed. At my table. On my arm.”

“Like a prostitute?” Greg couldn’t help himself. It was his birthday after all. And taking the piss out of Mycroft had to rank up there with the best presents. Plus, the man was practically proposing to him. And he knew in about three minutes one of them was going to make a move that would seal whatever deal Mycroft was still spouting out of his gorgeous lips.

“. . .and I feel that if we spent more time together . . .you’re not listening to me, are you?”

Greg leaned close and whispered in Mycroft’s ear. “I was hoping you’d put that mouth to better use.”

Mycroft looked hurt, then confused, then his eyebrow rose and he smiled. “Well, it is your birthday.”

He shoved Greg against the seat and shoved his hands under Greg’s shirt, finding his nipples, tugging. Greg’s eyes closed and he fumbled for Mycroft’s trousers. Mycroft slipped one hand out of Greg’s shirt and stilled his hands.

“No. This is for you.” Mycroft leaned forward and kissed Greg hard.

Greg grabbed Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Sucked Mycroft’s tongue into his mouth, writhing under the touch of Mycroft’s fingers on his chest. Mycroft tossed the bottle on the floor and pulled Greg’s hips to the edge of the seat. He unbuttoned Greg’s shirt and pulled it down around his shoulders, trapping his arms. Greg watched as Mycroft unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock from his pants.

Mycroft worked slow, deliberate. Greg thought he was going to lose his mind. He couldn’t move his arms and his foot was trapped under Mycroft’s arse. Mycroft cupped his balls and slipped a finger in his arse, all the while sucking his cock in and out of his mouth, his teeth sometimes scraping lightly against the shaft, his tongue flicking over the head, again and again and Greg knew he was going to have a heart attack. Dead at fifty from a fucking blow job.

“Fuuucckkk.” He hissed and thrust his hips forward, urging Mycroft to go faster. Or slower. He had no idea at this point. Mycroft reached up and pinched a nipple between his fingers and Greg felt it all go very fuzzy. He heard shouting and wished someone would shut up so he could concentrate and then he realize he was the one shouting and he was coming and he finally got an arm free and grabbed Mycroft’s hair, pulling hard. He collapsed back against the seat, breathing hard.

When he opened his eyes, Mycroft was sitting in his seat, smiling. How in the bloody hell does he do that? _Down and dirty on my dick one minute and then off to see the queen proper the next._

“That was . . .” Greg tried to talk, tried to pull up his pants, his trousers.

“Not to sound redundant, but happy birthday . . . Greg.”

Greg smiled. “Wow. Did you just call me Greg?”

“Maybe you did something to deserve it.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Greg wiped a hand across his face. “Bloody hell, I’m wiped.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Middle age, I’m afraid. Happens to us all.”

Greg closed his eyes for a few minutes. He wanted to fall asleep. He opened an eye and saw that Mycroft was watching him.

“What?”

“You are such a cliché – the perfect picture of the post-coital man.”

“I’m relaxing.”

“You are about to fall fast asleep with your pants around your knees.”

Greg lifted his hips and pulled his trousers back on. Zipped up and held his hands out. “Okay now?”

“You were fine the other way.”

Greg reached over and pulled Mycroft to him. Kissed him. “So now what?”

“Unfortunately, there is no escaping the debacle being prepared at Baker Street.”

“So there is a party?”

Mycroft sighed. “It was a weak moment. Mrs. Hudson tricked me with her diabolical honey sponge cake.”

Greg picked up the key chain from the floor. “I haven’t thanked you for this. I know what it means to you – your privacy.”

Mycroft smiled. “Oh, you’ll have plenty of time to thank me, Greg.”

“What about the party?”

“The party will conclude at approximately half eight, when Anthea will ring with an urgent message I cannot refuse.”

“She does that a lot, doesn’t she?”

“She has her utility.”

Greg stared out the window. They were almost to Baker Street. He turned to Mycroft. “I would be honoured to accept the keys to your house – home – world. And I’d give you mine, but you’ve already broken in there a dozen times, so . . .”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed him. Soft and slow. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him towards him and the kiss became quick and urgent. Greg was drowning in the heat and the thought that at least for the foreseeable future, he and Mycroft would be continuing . . . whatever it was they were doing. He had many more birthdays to figure that one out. Greg was reaching for Mycroft’s zipper when the door abruptly opened.

“Surprise! Happy birthday, mate!”

Greg looked around Mycroft’s head to see faces staring at him, stunned. He saw that Mrs. Hudson held a balloon, John was laughing and Sherlock stood with his arms folded, frowning.

“What the hell?” Greg pushed Mycroft off him and ran a hand through his hair.

Mycroft rolled to the other door and opened it.

“We couldn’t wait – you’ve been sitting here forever.” Molly pushed her face to the front. “Happy birthday, Greg!”

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” Greg looked over and Mycroft was gone. Coward.

John leaned in, grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered, “Sorry, mate – I tried to stop them.”

Greg got out of the car and was surrounded by friends from The Met, Bart’s, his rugby team. He spotted Mycroft by the door to Speedy’s, already in deep conversation with Sherlock. He let the crowd carry him through the door and up the stairs.

Later that night, after Mycroft had shouted _Greg_ until he was hoarse, he stood at the mirror in the ridiculously large bathroom and looked at himself, his face scraped from Mycroft’s stubble, his hair sticking straight out from his head, his lips swollen and decided he might actually enjoy being fifty.

fin


End file.
